The China Bird

by Bryony Doran

  Edward wants to say, ‘Please put me somewhere else. I don’t want to be down in the archives. I don’t want to be looking up to the light.’ But he says nothing.

  It’s as if he’s never been away. He is appalled. His pencils, his files, everything is still on his desk just as he left it. Everyone is still the same. He wants to stand on his desk and shout at everybody: you may all be the same, but I’m not! Can’t you see I’m different now? Lucky Janice. She’d got away, and yet she was the only one who’d ever really bothered with him.

  The rain falls all morning, straight and loud. It falls from everywhere into the small enclosed courtyard, overflowing from the gutters and spurting from holes in the rusty downpipe. Edward watches it from the basement window, searching for the sky through the bars, but there is only a grey blur. He looks down and sees the raindrops dancing on the wet concrete.

  The bell on the book-lift dings a request. He walks away from the window, still listening for the sound of the rain.

  At twelve o’clock, the rubber ferrule of his stick is pressing into the top step outside the library entrance. The beggar girl is still there.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  She cocks her head like a bird, ‘Why?’

  ‘No reason.’ He shakes his head and hobbles off down Surrey Street, stopping on the corner to take a deep breath. The wind is cool on his face. He must find a refuge. In the churchyard he sits on a bench dedicated to Lily Appleyard 1924-1984, the dates are somehow satisfying.

  The blue hands on the face of the church clock move gradually around to one o’clock. It is cold. He could go home now and no-one would notice. You have to go back. Come on, Edward, this is not like you. He makes a pact with himself. If the girl is still there between the pillars then he will go back in. If she isn’t, well, he isn’t quite sure.

  Her dog looks up and whimpers at him. He wonders how Tabitha is getting on, all on her own. Would she be asleep in his chair? He wants to say to the girl: I gave you five pounds this morning, why couldn’t you have gone home? But would she reply, ‘I haven’t got a home to go to’?

  And he knows he doesn’t want to hear that.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  Rachel comes back from town and lets herself into the house just as the clock in the hall chimes four. She sighs as she thinks of the events of that morning, and the short shrift she’d given that poor girl. If only she hadn’t turned up like that, so unexpectedly, smiling her intrusion into the house and demonstrating to Rachel the triviality and yes, even the loneliness of her own existence.

  The cat puts its head in through the flap and quickly surveys Rachel and the kitchen before squeezing the rest of its body through. Rachel laughs at it and feels comforted. ‘You fat thing.’

  She decides on a ham sandwich for her tea. She places a willow pattern plate on the table and sees the letter propped against the vase of snowdrops. At first she thinks it must be from Angela, and then she recognises Edward’s handwriting. The girl must have picked it up from the mat.

  80 Hancock Place

  Sheffield

  Dear Mother,

  I’m glad, after your initial reserve, that you liked your bird egg book. I would love to see a picture of a bullfinch egg. Will you bring it with you next time we meet?

  I have bought another book for you, although I shouldn’t really tell you, should I? I got off the bus, glanced into the charity shop window and there it was, staring back at me, and I thought, I have got to get that for Mother. I’m sure this time you will like it.

  Tell me, I want to know what colour kingfishers’ eggs are? What do they make their nests from? This is a fascinating subject I have discovered isn’t it? If you were a bird, what sort of bird would you like to be? I think I would like to be a cuckoo. King of the heap, and telling of spring.

  Love,

  Edward

  But that was ages ago. Confused, she studies the date. It was a couple of weeks after they had met for lunch at the Blue Moon cafe. How can this be? Has it been lost in the post all this time, to end up like a ghost dropping through her letterbox?

  She sits down heavily on one of the kitchen chairs and puts her head in her hands. Why has he disappeared without telling anyone where he was going? She is struck by how much she cares. After all these years, he has managed to penetrate her inner skin. She must be getting old and silly. No, she only wants to know he is safe and happy, nothing else. If he wants to be left in peace that is alright. She knows how it is to yearn for peace. She reaches over to place the letter safely into the second drawer, where she keeps her papers. On the worktop she notices a dark maroon cover like the menus from Henrys, but of fine leather and much, much thicker. She picks it up. It is a photo album. To see the photos on each page she must first peel back the tissue paper. All the photos are in black and white.

  There is a strangeness about them that at first she cannot comprehend until she sees a shop in the background. The board above the shop is in French. Claudette. This must be Claudette’s photo album. The girl must have brought it to show her as she promised she would. She feels mortified. The girl hadn’t just come for her ballet ticket, or to find out where Edward was, she had brought her this as well. But that still didn’t excuse the way she’d treated Edward. She still deserved a flea in her ear.

  There is a photo of Claudette looking younger and yes, there is her own grandmother. She has the same picture in her father’s old photo album. She scans Claudette’s face and that of her grandmother, looking for a likeness, maybe in the shape of the mouth. She must write to the girl and apologise.

  6 Acorn Cres.

  Sheffield

  Dear Angela,

  I have been looking at the photo album. Thank you for bringing it. I’m sorry if I snapped at you and I hope you will find it in your heart to forgive me. I am still not sure how I feel about Edward modelling for you, but I suppose I should accept that he is a grown man and the decision rests with him. To be honest, I am very worried about him. I do not know where he is either. I arranged to meet him for lunch a few weeks ago and he didn’t turn up so I went to his place of work. They said he was off sick, so I went to his lodging and his landlady said he had moved out and I have heard nothing since. If you do hear from him, could you please let me know?

  I will fully understand if you don’t want to, but I would very much like you to come to tea next Thursday at 3.30 so that I can give you back the photo album and discuss it with you.

  In case you decide you can’t face me again I am enclosing the Ballet ticket I got for you.

  Regards,

  Rachel

  If she didn’t come to the house but went to the ballet would she realise that she would be sitting next to Rachel? The best seats in the house, and all for free.

  She had once received a single ticket through the post to see Giselle performed by a Russian dance company. In the envelope had been a slip of white paper; From an admirer. Nothing else. She used the ticket and found herself sitting in the front row. So close that she could hear the padding of the dancers’ shoes above the music. The whole ballet was performed behind a muslin curtain. She’d loved it. The music, the dance, everything about it gave her a feeling of great longing.

  She stood outside the theatre afterwards, blinking in the sunshine. She wished it was dark so that she could have let the feeling linger, perhaps kept it with her all the way home on the bus. She felt someone lightly touch her on the elbow. She turned and looked up into the face of a young man. He smiled. She knew that smile. It was the shy boy, the artist who used to visit her house. He worked at the theatre now, creating stage sets. He had seen her in town one day and knew he wanted to thank her for what she had given him. The ballet always reminded him of her, he’d said. It had the same ethereal quality.

  Rachel runs her hand across the leather cover of the photo album. She opens it up from the back. On the last page is a photo of Claudette’s mother with a boy of about thirteen. He is distinctly odd around the face. ‘Not qui
te the full shilling,’ as her father would have said. Is this who Claudette called the deformed boy? She takes a closer look. Her blood runs cold. His back, like Edward’s, is hunched to one side.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  The branches of the beech tree are tapping against the window to the side of the balcony. He has watched the tips gradually change from a dark russet to a pale brown. On his balcony the tubs are spiked with a glimpse of crocuses and their promised colours of yellow or purple. A secret they’ve shared with the dark earth all winter.

  Edward sits back down in his chair. He must go to see Angela. He must take back power over his life. However awful the truth is, it can’t be any worse than this limbo in which he exists. He imagines her face, the softness of her contours, and then, when she sees him, the distortion of that loveliness as she recoils in horror at the old man she has made love to. Who would have thought that single act could shatter the crisp white shell he had placed around his life for so long. In fact, cracked it so wide open that the pain of it, the intensity, cuts through him like a knife. He would like the dullness of his old life back. At least that was safe. He didn’t have to endure this pain. He presses his hands to his ears and listens to the turmoil in his head. Behind his eyes he can see a blue light through which drift sea-horses, with their strange questioning faces. He is he losing his grasp on reality. Tabitha brushes up against his bare legs and meows. He puts his hand down and strokes along her back, pulling her tail.

  ‘You’re right, girl. It’s about time I got a grip on myself.’ He will get a newspaper and a writing pad, and then he’ll write to her. He feeds the cat, readies himself to go out.

  The sun is shining through his bedroom door. Soon it will be up over the roof and this afternoon it will strike the balcony. He picks up his stick and, forgetting his coat, goes out. He walks down the high street. It is alive with shoppers all enjoying that same Saturday morning feeling. He stops outside the greengrocers and admires the tilted display of apples and oranges. There is a fresh wind that brings a chill to the air and Edward wishes he had brought his jacket. He notices people sitting in the window of the German Coffee House reading the Saturday papers. He enters and looks around. The table in the bay window has just been vacated. Someone else’s crumbs are still there, scattered around a half-empty cup of weak tea. A single daffodil with a sprig of catkin in a little glass bottle sits in the centre of the table. The waitress comes to clear up and take his order.

  ‘I’m sorry to be a nuisance,’ says Edward. ‘Perhaps I should have sat at one of the prepared tables.’

  ‘This table is always popular in the morning when the sun’s on it. What can I get you?’

  Edward studies the menu board. ‘May I have a cafetiere of – I think I’ll try the Moroccan. And can I have hot milk with it, please?’

  He leans over and picks up a copy of The Guardian from the table next to him, scanning the front page for an interesting article. He doesn’t open the paper. It is too difficult for him unless he has an empty table to lay it out on.

  His cup, made at the local pottery, sits perfectly in his hands leaving the little saucer redundant on the table. He feels a little better now. The sun is on his back warming him through, and he has found a good cup of coffee. What else could a man want?

  The door opens, letting in a cold draft. He looks up to see Angela standing there.

  Oh, my God. He picks up The Guardian, takes a sly sideways look. Yes, it is definitely Angela, heavily muffled against the wind, but it is her. He would recognise that stance anywhere. Her hair has grown since he last saw her, it is wisping out from the bottom of her scarf and he is comforted to see that it is still her natural colour. He tries to focus on the photograph on the front page of the newspaper. It is of a woman, her face contorted in pain. He listens for the door opening, for Angela making her escape. He has made it easy for her.

  ‘Edward? How are you?’ She smiles down at him, a shy smile.

  He stares back at her. The paper falling from his grasp. ‘I’m fine, thank you.’

  She glances around the coffee shop as if looking for an empty table.

  ‘Will you join me?’

  ‘Thanks. I’d like that.’ She hesitates, ‘If you’re sure.’

  He looks up at her and nods. She slides into the window seat next to him and then proceeds to ease herself out of her coat. He watches in silence not knowing what to say, but realising how much he has missed her.

  She tilts her head to one side and studies him. ‘You look different, somehow,’ she says. ‘I like the chinstrap beard.’

  They smile at each other. How well she looks. Her skin is so lucent he wants to reach out his hand and softly stroke her cheek. The waitress comes over.

  ‘Can I have a pot of tea for …?’ Angela looks over at him and sees his cafetière.

  ‘Just for one,’ he interjects, ‘and please, could I have another cafetiere? This coffee is very good.’

  They both watch the waitress as she walks away.

  She stammers. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve spoilt your peace, haven’t I?’

  He is reassured to see that she looks nervous.

  The waitress returns with their drinks, placing the tray on the table.

  ‘It’s strange meeting you here,’ he pauses. ‘I was just thinking this morning that I should contact you.’

  ‘Alex said he’d seen you in here, so I thought I might find you.’

  She doesn’t look up but concentrates on stirring her tea. He doesn’t answer. He can feel tears trickling down his cheek. She has sought him out. She looks up and stretches across the table, pushing her blue napkin in front of her.

  ‘Thank you.’ He tries to smile.

  They sit in silence. Edward closes his eyes. That thrashing monster is there again, crushing his chest. He hears Angela pouring her second cup, a steady stream into her china cup.

  ‘Shall I pour your coffee?’

  He shakes his head. ‘No, no thank you. I’ll let it stand a little longer.’

  ‘Let it stew, eh?’

  He gives her a weak smile. ‘You must find me a very strange creature.’

  ‘I’ve missed you, actually. Don’t look so disbelieving. You’re not the only lonely person, you know.’

  ‘I never said I was lonely.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I just assumed. You do have a certain air about you.’

  ‘Still?’

  She puts her head on one side and surveys him, ‘Not sure.’

  ‘Are you lonely?’ He asks, curious.

  ‘Yes. I suppose I am.’ She hesitates, ‘I dunno, it feels like I’ve got this big black hole inside me. The only time it goes away is when I’m drawing. How did you shake off yours?’

  ‘I’ll tell you one day’

  ‘Still dodging the issue, I see.’

  He smiles and reaches for the cafetière.

  ‘Edward?’ He looks up. ‘Can I do that?’ She indicates the cafetiere.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Press the plunger. I love doing it.’

  He smiles and then watches the child-like expression on her face as she presses it down.

  He tries to think of something to say but his mind is blank.

  She breaks the silence by indicating up the hill with her head. ‘The Art College is just up there, you know?’

  ‘So it is. I’d forgotten about that.’

  ‘Are you living around here? Your mother said you’d moved out of your lodgings. She seemed a bit perturbed.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve got a flat. I love it.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to invite her round?’

  ‘I don’t want her to spoil it. I don’t want her to have any part in it.’

  ‘Don’t you think she might be lonely?’

  ‘To be quite honest, I don’t care. I used to, but not anymore.’

  ‘What has she done to you to make you feel like this? She’s quite concerned about you, you know?’

  ‘Can we drop the subject?’

  He wat
ches as she concentrates on stirring her tea, her black lashes stark against her pale skin.

  ‘How have you been, Edward?’ She looks up, searching his face.

  That one question unnerves him. He sees with surprise the care written in her eyes. He scrapes back his chair. ‘I ought to go.’ He beckons the waitress, ‘Can I have the bill, please?’ His voice wavers.

  ‘For everything?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Angela tilts her head in that way that he remembers so well.

  ‘My treat,’ He picks up his stick and notices his hand is shaking uncontrollably. The doorbell tinkles as he pulls it open. He is met by a blast of cold air.

  ‘Edward?’

  He turns. Angela is picking up her coat and scarf, making her way towards him. ‘Can I come back and see your flat?’

  She slows to his pace as they walk up the hill. ‘You’re not far from the college are you?’ She feels impelled to keep up a constant flow of conversation. Strange, seeing him again it feels as if nothing happened, that it was all a dream. Everything will be all right once she has broached the subject of him sitting for her again. He’ll be relieved when he sees that she just wants everything to be as it was.

  His flat is lovely, the views across the valley breathtaking. They stand on the balcony, leaning against the rail, trying to pick out different landmarks across the city. He falls silent. She doesn’t notice. She is watching a single magpie in the tree below, trying to find a second.

  ‘I love you,’ he says.

  She wonders if she has imagined it. It was no more than a whisper. Then he turns to her and says it louder, his voice choking in his throat, ‘I love you.’

  His knuckles are white with tension, grasping the rail. ‘I can’t bear it any more.’ She looks up; his chin is beginning to wobble.

  ‘I can’t live without you.’

  ‘I have to go.’ She picks up her coat and scarf and runs. Away from his voice, pleading like a cracked bell.

  As she makes her way back down the hill she is sobbing with anger. How dare he? How can he say something like that to her? As if there was a possibility that there could ever be anything between them. She had felt so hopeful when she’d seen him in the café, hopeful that everything could go back to normal and they could pretend nothing had happened. She could have told him her news, how thrilled Alex had been about her work. They could have continued with the sittings. He had to go and spoil it all.